


the water can't drown me

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s01e22 Beginning of the End, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 23:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6774775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma won't let Fitz sacrifice himself for her. She <em>won't</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to write this fic for AGES and finally, I have succeeded. More will be along (hopefully soon?) because I have Plans, but for now, this seems like a good start.
> 
> I'm behind on comment replies and will probably not get to them until Monday because I'm the worst and also have a busy weekend ahead of me. Sorry!
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Jemma is hurting very badly in a number of places—though the fall would undoubtedly have been far worse if not for Fitz’s quick thinking, it still wasn’t kind to either of them—but all of her physical pains combined don’t even begin to match the agony in her heart.

How can Fitz ask this of her? To save her own life at the cost of his…it’s unbearable. Un _think_ able. She won’t do it—she can’t.

“I couldn’t live if you didn’t,” he tells her, so seriously—so _earnestly_ —as if she feels any differently!

“I feel the same way!” she counters. This is unacceptable; it’s a terrible plan, and they simply need to rethink it, that’s all. They’ll find another way. There’s _always_ another way. “There must be another way!”

Mustn’t there?

“There is.”

Jemma screams. It’s a very _short_ scream—more a shriek, really—and she cuts it off the second she gains control of herself, but it’s horribly loud in the small confines of the pod, and it sets her already aching head to throbbing.

Of course, considering the sudden and impossible presence of _Grant Ward_ at the other end of the pod, she has rather larger problems than a headache.

“Ward,” Fitz gasps, moving jerkily in front of Jemma. “What—how—?”

 _How_ is an excellent question. They’re at the bottom of the ocean— _ninety feet_ below the surface—in a sealed container. Even if he somehow managed to dive down to them (unlikely for a number of reasons, not least of which being that he’s bone dry), there’s no possible way he could get in the pod without bringing the ocean with him. If any of the seals had breached, they’d _all_ be drowning at this very moment, yet there’s not a drop of water in the pod. The seals are holding, window and door included.

So how on _earth_ did he get in?

Ward smiles…oddly. That’s the only word Jemma can think of to describe it: it’s just…odd. Nothing at all like the tentative curve to his lips she fell in love with over the course of the last few months (to her current great shame)—or even the cold smirk he greeted them with a few hours ago.

She’s never seen him smile like that, and she’s _certainly_ never seen him look at her the way he is now. There’s something almost _hungry_ in his gaze as it moves over her, plain to see even in the darkness of the pod. Scant weeks ago, it would have made her blush; now, it chills her to the bone.

It’s also dreadfully confusing. He barely spared her a glance when dropping her and Fitz from the Bus; what’s changed in the hours they’ve spent down here to cause him to look at her like this?

“All very good questions,” he says serenely, and Jemma frowns, as much for the words as the tone. She hasn’t found her voice yet to speak, and Fitz is still stammering. To what questions might Ward be referring?

He takes a step forward, and her automatic step back causes a surge of pain that brings with it a bolt of realization.

He announced his presence by saying _there is_. And his _there is_ was preceded by her words that there must be another way.

He was responding to her declaration.

That, plus his presence at all, suggests a manner of escape that might be more tenable than their current plan. She doesn’t know how—whether he’s somehow got his hands on teleportation technology or something even more far-fetched—or _why_ he would even bother coming here, but if he has a way out…

“Ward,” she starts, only to falter as he smiles again.

“I am not Grant Ward,” he says.

Um.

Jemma exchanges a glance with Fitz, whose wide eyes suggest that he, too, is fearing that Ward has suffered some form of mental break. Considering just how dangerous he is, that would be concerning at the best of times; trapped and alone with him in a tiny storage pod, however…

“Oh?” she asks, trying for a light, friendly tone and falling, she fears, far short. “Who—who are you, then?”

His smile gentles. “You may call me Alveus.”

Jemma doesn’t know what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t _that_. _Alveus_? It sounds Latin. Where would Ward have heard such a name and why would he try to claim it as his own?

(And while she’s asking questions—really, _how_ did he get in here?)

“And I am not crazy,” he continues, still in a gentle tone. “Look at me, Jemma. Really look.”

Though disconcerted by his use of her first name—and, more significantly, the way his voice wraps so disturbingly around it—she does as he asks. At first, she’s not quite sure what she’s supposed to be looking at, but gradually…

Still slightly in front of her, Fitz makes a confused sort of noise.

“What are you _wearing_?” he asks.

It’s a decent question—Ward’s never worn that sort of coat before, and it’s not as though he could have gone out and purchased it mid-flight—but Jemma is more concerned with his face.

“What happened to your injuries?” she asks slowly. All of the cuts and abrasions she fussed over at Providence are gone as if they never were—as if they weren’t still present mere hours ago. And… “Did you get a haircut?”

“As I said.” He spreads his hands. “I’m not Grant Ward.” He casts his eyes upwards. “Currently, Grant Ward is on your plane, reassuring himself that you are safe. He believes the pod is floating and is relieved you are out of John Garrett’s reach.”

Fitz scoffs, and Jemma is in complete agreement. That’s not just unlikely, it’s impossible. Impossible and absurd and—

And Jemma doesn’t care. In this moment, all that matters is that he might have a way out of here and he might, if his relatively friendly attitude is any indication, be willing to share it. If he can get her _and_ Fitz out of this alive, he can call himself Queen Victoria, for all she cares. Questions about his identity and impossibility can wait until they’re not in imminent danger.

“Alveus,” she says, ignoring Fitz’s startled frown, “you said there’s another way. Can you get us out of here?”

“Simmons,” Fitz says warily. “What—?”

“Yes.” Ward or Alveus or whoever he is tips his head. “And no.”

Fear and frustration battle for dominance in her chest, and Jemma breathes deeply, reaching for calm. They are going to _die_ if they don’t get out of this pod, and none of her options are good. Either she abandons Fitz to death, as he wishes, or she puts her trust in this possibly deranged man who may—or, somehow, may _not_ —be the one who stranded them here in the first place.

And even if he’s claiming not to be Ward, he certainly _looks_ just like him, which means that the heavy intent in his gaze as it remains fixed firmly on her is building panic in her lungs. She’s trying very, very hard not to think of the mess that was Agent Koenig’s throat…and mostly failing.

“What does that mean?” she asks, as evenly as she’s able.

“I can get _you_ out of here,” he says, and then immediately raises a hand, stopping the protest that’s sprung to her lips. “And with you safely away, Fitz will be able to use that oxygen for himself. You’ll both be out of this pod and you’ll both be alive.”

“And Fitz will be bobbing alone in the ocean with a broken arm,” Jemma snaps. It’s probably harsher than she should be with Ward—or a stranger who may well be just as dangerous—but the loss of her brief hope hurts badly enough to outweigh her common sense.

Fitz is in no shape to be treading water for an extended period. If left alone in the open ocean, he’d likely drown within the hour.

“He won’t,” she’s assured at once. “A SHIELD helicopter is on its way even as we speak. Your emergency beacon is being tracked.”

Jemma hesitates, worrying at her lower lip. He might be lying. In fact, it’s downright likely—what he’s saying is far too convenient.

Yet something tells her she can trust him. Some instinct is insisting upon it—Alveus is trustworthy. He wants to save them.

Maybe…

“ _No_ ,” Fitz says, and then again, as she looks to him in surprise. “No! He wants to take you who knows where, who knows _how_ , to do who knows—No. You’ll take the oxygen and—”

“And leave you to _die_?” she demands. All at once, she makes her decision, casting doubt and fear aside. Of the two horrible options available to her, she’ll take the one that doesn’t _guarantee_ Fitz’s death. “Absolutely not, Fitz.”

“Jemma—”

“ _Leo_ ,” she says over him, and as she hoped, it’s enough to startle him into silence. Though he’s been known to call her by her first name from time to time, she’s only twice before returned the favor. “I’ll take half a chance of your survival over no chance, any day. Regardless of what it means for me.”

He stares at her, something strange in his expression, and she turns determinedly to face…whoever.

“Do you _promise_ rescue is on the way?” she asks.

“I do,” he says earnestly. “Fitz will be fine—as will you.” He extends a hand to her, so very like and unlike Ward at the same time. “I’ll take care of you, Jemma.”

There’s something frightening about those words—or perhaps merely the emphasis he puts on them. He’s not talking only about this rescue; there’s something _permanent_ in his voice, something that tells her he means to _take care_ of her in the long-term. And there are several possibilities as to how he might define taking care of her, each more petrifying than the last.

But she doesn’t care what will happen to her. What matters is that Fitz will survive—will be unable to sacrifice himself for her sake, unable to force her into abandoning him when she isn’t here to do it.

 _Anything_ is better than losing Fitz. Anything at all.

“Jemma,” Fitz says, voice strangled. “No.”

Ignoring him, she steps forward to accept the proffered hand. It closes firmly around hers, and a gentle pull sees her standing flush with its owner, his other arm an iron band around her waist.

“Take a deep breath,” he advises. She finds, looking up at him, that the hunger she saw earlier has disappeared; his eyes are unfathomable now, dark and deep and far too old to be Ward’s. “This will be…unpleasant.”

Darkness—if so simple a word can be applied to such a vast, cold emptiness—rises up around them. The last thing she sees before it surrounds them is Fitz, face twisted in helpless fear and head shaking in silent denial.

He’ll be fine.

“So will you,” she’s promised, and then the darkness overwhelms her.


	2. Chapter 2

_Unpleasant_ is one word to describe it. Also applicable are _horrible_ , _terrifying_ , and _painful_. It’s like being ripped apart at the seams in a very literal sense—she feels as though she’s being wrenched apart, an awful pull from every angle putting unbearable strain on her joints. She expects to feel her skin begin to split at any second, and would certainly be screaming if she had any breath for it. Unfortunately, her lungs seem to have been compressed, and she can’t force them to inflate. All she can do is wait for—

—for it to be over?

All of the sudden, it is; the darkness falls away, she drags in a desperate breath, and Jemma is left woozy but whole, standing in the circle of her rescuer’s arms. Well, more slumping than standing, really; she’s leant against his chest, and as weak as her knees are, it’s probably only his hold keeping her on her feet.

“My apologies,” he murmurs, running a gentle hand over her hair. “I wish I could have made that easier for you.”

Before Jemma can decide on a suitable response to that, she’s distracted by their surroundings. They’re in a large, plain room with grey walls, eight televisions, and a large bed. There’s no immediately visible door, and, steadier now, she gladly takes the excuse of turning to look for one to pull away from him.

He allows it easily enough, though the way his hand lingers on the curve of her hip is…slightly worrying.

The door is, as expected, on the wall she was facing away from. It’s also open, and there’s a man standing at attention just outside of it. For politeness’ sake, Jemma resists the urge to stare at the horrid scarring surrounding his sunglasses, though she’s terribly curious about what could possibly have caused it.

“Lucio,” her rescuer—she supposes she should simply call him Alveus, as he requested; either he’s not Ward, and Alveus is his name, or he _is_ Ward and suffering some form of mental break, in which case playing along is probably better for her health—says. “Our guest is in need of healing.”

The man—Lucio—nods once and disappears off to the right, and Alveus rests his hands on Jemma’s shoulders. He’s very close; she can feel the heat of him all along her back.

“Come, Jemma,” he says, hands sliding down her arms. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. You should sit before you fall.”

There are armchairs off to one side, arranged carelessly in a corner as if they were pushed away to make room for something else, but he takes her hand and leads her instead to the bed. She tries not to read anything into it—and the hollow in her stomach proves her failure.

Alveus frowns, pulling her down to sit with him on the edge of the bed. “I’m not going to hurt you, Jemma.”

“I—I want to believe that,” she says, stuttering slightly as he runs gentle fingers over the abrasions on the back of her left hand. It sends an odd thrill through her, something not quite pain. “But…”

“But I appeared impossibly out of nowhere,” Alveus completes, and sighs. “Wearing the face of a man you have cause to fear.”

“Yes,” she says. She searches his face now—closer than she was in the pod, and in better lighting, she should be able to pick out any differences.

But there don’t appear to be any. In his expression, yes, and in his eyes—so much older than Ward’s, and looking at her with so much more care than he ever showed, even _before_ he revealed himself a traitor—but in his physical features? The shape of his face, the sharp angle of his cheekbones—

She’s spent more time than she’d care to admit stealing glances at Grant Ward—and even if she hadn’t, they were a team for more than six months. Of his personality, she obviously knew nothing, but she knows his face.

This is his face.

“You need not fear me,” he promises. “And I will answer all of your questions. First, though, you need rest…and,” he adds, as a lovely young woman enters the room, “healing.”

The woman beelines straight for Jemma, who examines her with some suspicion. The daring red dress she’s wearing is gorgeous, and suits her very well, but it’s hardly what Jemma would expect from a medic. Add to that the notable lack of first aid kit, medical supplies, or even _pockets_ in which to store a plaster or two…

“Hi, Jemma,” the woman says, admirably maintaining her balance in her very high heels as she crouches to put them at eye level. “Let’s see about getting you fixed up.”

“Are you a doctor?” Jemma asks. She does her best not to sound accusatory; after all, it’s not as though she has any room to point fingers in the area of makeshift medical practice.

The woman smiles as she reaches out to rest her (ungloved) fingers just under Jemma’s temples. “Not exactly.”

Before Jemma can press further, _something_ happens. She doesn’t know what, precisely. A wave of something she can only describe as a cold warmth—which makes no sense at all, but there it is—washes through her, running underneath her skin to settle at her temples and in her hands and over her ribs and around the shoulder the man who dragged her onto the Bus hours ago nearly wrenched right out of the socket.

In other words, the feeling becomes concentrated in the places where she’s hurting, and she looks down at her hand in Alveus’ to see the abrasions healing over. It’s only a matter of seconds before all of her pain fades into nothing.

“What—?” She lifts her free hand to touch her temple and feels delicately at the dried blood surrounding…nothing. There’s no wound at all. It’s simply gone.

Remarkable.

“You’re a Gifted?” she asks—it’s really the only logical explanation—and the woman’s eyes shift to Alveus. Jemma follows her gaze just in time to catch the slight shake of his head.

“Something like that,” the woman says, still smiling, and stands. “Do you need anything else?”

“From you, that will be all,” Alveus says. “But tell Giyera to send in a meal for our guest.”

Jemma doesn’t waste her breath protesting that she isn’t hungry; she’s much more interested in the question of what just happened.

“What does she mean, _something like that_?” she asks. “What is she, if not Gifted?” And while she’s asking questions… “Are _you_ a Gifted? Is that how you brought me here? And where _is_ here, anyh—”

“Peace, my Jemma,” Alveus interrupts, which is probably just as well. She has no end of questions, and if he hadn’t stopped her, she might well have gone on listing every single one of them. “I will answer all of your questions, but—”

“There is no _possible_ way I can rest without having my questions answered,” she protests, remembering his earlier promise, and it’s even the truth. Exhaustion is tugging at her (to say nothing of the adrenaline crash from her long and harrowing day), but with her mind whirling the way it is, she has no hope at all of calming it down.

Sleep will remain far, far beyond her grasp until she has answers.

He chuckles slightly. “No, I suppose not. Very well, then—but I warn you, ours is a very long tale…and one which will require no little suspension of disbelief on your part.”

She doesn’t know which discomfits her more: the need for suspension of disbelief, or the weight he puts on the word _ours_. Somehow, she doesn’t believe the plural is in regards to the woman who just left.

He’s still holding her hand in both of his, fingers tracing over her now healed skin. Ward has never touched her like this—Ward has never touched _anyone_ like this that she’s seen—and as a sensation, it falls somewhere between soothing and unsettling.

When she shifts to face him, drawing one leg up to hug to her chest, it’s only half for the ease of conversation. The other half is because it gives her an excuse to tug her hand out of his hold—something his slight frown suggests he’s both aware of and displeased by.

Thinking is rather her specialty, and she can’t stop herself from doing it, from considering the evidence she’s gathered thus far and piecing it together to draw conclusions. His promise to take care of her, his easy invasion of her space, the tone in which he said _ours_ , and—he called her _my Jemma_ , didn’t he?

She can’t stop herself thinking, but for her own sake, she decides, for now, to ignore the conclusions she draws. She can’t be certain of anything until she has all the information—she’ll hear his long story before letting herself fear the circumstances she’s found herself in.

“I’ve seen a lot,” she says, a bit belatedly, “working for SHIELD. My parameters for disbelief aren’t like most people’s.”

“No,” he agrees, with a smile she can only call fond. “They aren’t. However, my explanation begins with something with which even you have no experience.”

“Oh?” she asks. “And what’s that?”

Alveus’ smile widens. “Time travel.”

“Time—” He’s joking. He _must_ be joking.

“Today’s date, Jemma,” he says, with a gesture to the screen playing what appears to be a news program, “is March 16, 2016.”

No. Absolutely—there is _no way_. The ticker at the bottom of the news program might bear the date he’s claimed, but that’s hardly proof of anything. It would be child’s play to fake.

So why can’t she find her voice to accuse him of lying? Why is dread curling so tightly in her stomach?

“It’s difficult to accept, I know,” Alveus says, “but please, hear me out. Once I’ve explained everything, I will gladly provide any proof you ask.”

Still unable to find her voice, Jemma can only nod—nod and listen as a completely absurd and impossible story unfolds.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, ta-da? *hides* Sorry, sorry, I know it's been almost a full year--and after that long, this chapter...probably won't be what you're expecting. But I hope you enjoy it anyway!
> 
> We're detouring out of Jemma's POV for this chapter, but don't worry; next time we'll be back to her.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review! <3

It’s not that Phil doesn’t appreciate the rescue, because things were looking grim and he absolutely does. But when Mack opens the door to reveal Elena and Lincoln instead of Daisy, he gets a horrible sinking feeling.

Lincoln’s slightly shell-shocked look doesn’t help. “You guys…might wanna come to the cargo bay.”

“What is it?” Phil asks. Melinda, obviously just as worried as he is, bats Trip away as he tries to help her up. “Is Daisy—?”

“Everyone’s fine,” Lincoln interrupts. “Just…go to the cargo bay.”

Elena, when Phil turns to her, is wholly focused on Mack. Deliberately, unless he misses his guess.

He takes a deep breath. They’ve crash-landed in enemy territory, Melinda’s wounded, and their pilots are dead. This really isn’t the time for being cryptic.

Before he can say so, though, Will pushes to his feet. He hit his head pretty hard in the crash and is still bleeding a little (which, added to the wild-eyed look he’s been sporting since Transia, doesn’t do him a lot of favors in appearing sane), but he only wavers for a second before standing straight.

“I’ll get us out of here,” he says.

“I don’t know, man.” Trip, still trying in vain to give Melinda any help at all, eyes him skeptically. “You sure you’re okay to—?”

“Trust me,” Will says, already halfway out the door. “I’d _walk_ outta this place if I had to.”

“Cargo bay it is, then,” Phil says, trying to adopt an air of authority. He’s pretty sure he fails. Things have been spinning further and further out of control lately, and whatever’s waiting for them in the cargo bay—whatever could keep Daisy from personally seeing to their rescue, whatever Lincoln can’t just _tell_ them—it’s sure to make it worse.

They’re already in the cargo hold, sheltering in a storage closet, so the bay’s not a long walk. Long enough for Phil’s imagination to start getting away from him, though—for a horrible little voice to present no end of terrible suggestions, no matter how many times he reminds himself that Lincoln said everyone was fine.

It’s also long enough for Will to reach the cockpit and start take-off, and it’s even odds whether it’s that or pure shock that has Phil’s feet wavering beneath him when he rounds the corner of the containment unit.

He stops dead, arrested by the sight in front of him. Fitz runs into him, gets out a single syllable, and then freezes.

But while Phil’s brain is still trying to wrap around what he’s seeing, Fitz recovers in a heartbeat.

“Jemma!”

Even as he’s shouting her name, he’s tearing across the cargo bay to throw himself at her—and at Daisy, who’s already clinging to her in what’s gotta be a painfully tight hug. Somehow, Simmons—because it _is_ Simmons, miraculously, unbelievably—manages to work an arm free to grab Fitz in return, expression painted in enough relief to make Phil’s heart (even stopped by astonishment as it is) ache.

Behind him, Trip chokes like the breath’s been punched out of him. A familiar hand latches tight to Phil’s arm.

“Phil,” Melinda says lowly.

“I know.”

It looks like Simmons—looks exactly how he remembers her, right down to the ponytail. All of them have gotten noticeably older in the past two years, even the kids, but Simmons hasn’t aged a day. She could’ve stepped right out of one of his nightmares.

(He has a lot of nightmares about her. That final _yes, sir_ —the last words he ever heard from her—has made a frequent appearance in his dreams. Just a simple acceptance of his orders, slightly reluctant but not defiant…he sent her to her death and she walked right into it. He’s had nightmares about that, about her returning to accuse him, about her begging him to save her, about her rotting away at the bottom of the ocean…and sometimes an extra fun combo of all of the above.)

But just because it _looks_ like Simmons doesn’t mean it _is_. There’s always the risk of a photostatic veil—or of an Inhuman that can look like other people, or of some trick of the creature’s.

Phil would _love_ to believe that this is Simmons, but he can’t take it on faith.

So he crosses the cargo bay—slowly. Each step is heavy, like two years of guilt are physically weighing down his feet, and it doesn’t help that Melinda’s following close enough to step on his heels.

(Trip, on the other hand, is hanging back…which is probably for the best. If this _is_ some kind of trap or trick, the last thing they need is for the entire team to get caught in it at once.)

Simmons sees them first—no surprise, as Fitz and Daisy both appear to be crying on her shoulders—and greets them with a wide, familiar grin that fades into a frown the moment she gets a good look at Melinda.

“May!” she exclaims, trying—and utterly failing—to extract herself from Fitz and Daisy. “You’re hurt!”

“I’m fine,” Melinda says. “Are you?”

“Yes,” she says, apparently giving up on getting away. She rubs Daisy’s back gently. “I’m all right.”

“I told you,” Fitz says suddenly. He lifts his head to aim a glare at Phil and Melinda—and even Daisy. “I _told_ you she was alive.”

“Fitz—”

“Coulson,” Daisy interrupts. She doesn’t lift her head, just turns it on Simmons’ shoulder to meet his eyes. Hers are red-rimmed and full of something he can’t identify. “Lincoln’s source—he knew the creature’s name. It’s Alveus.”

For the second time in less than five minutes, shock steals the breath from Phil’s lungs. This time, though, it comes with a thrill of horror.

When Fitz came out of the ocean claiming Simmons had been rescued by a teleporter who looked like Ward but called himself Alveus, Phil—and everyone else—assumed he’d hallucinated. They thought it was a delusion he dreamed up, a way of denying to himself the reality of Simmons’ death.

They still thoroughly investigated, of course—Ward had never heard of anyone called Alveus and sure as hell couldn’t teleport (the eight months he spent in Vault D proved that well enough)—but it seemed obvious Fitz was traumatized and in denial.

Then Phil personally killed Ward, only for him to show up as the host of an ancient evil from another planet—a planet they only found in the first place because Fitz was chasing the name Alveus.

It’s occurred to Phil since then to wonder, of course it has, but to actually _hear_ that the creature’s name is Alveus—and to hear it when Simmons is _right in front of them_ …

“Maybe we should take this elsewhere,” he says, as calmly as he’s able. “Simmons, I’m sure you understand that we have a few questions? I’m afraid we’re gonna need to verify your identity.”

It gets him furious looks from the kids, but Simmons nods easily.

“Of course, sir,” she says, and looks around. “Um. This clearly isn’t the Bus. Do you have…?”

Technically speaking, they should quarantine her. But he knows his chances of prying Daisy and Fitz off of her are slim to none—and, on a more personal level, after years of nightmares that involved her rotting away in a tiny storage pod, he can’t quite bring himself to order her into the containment unit.

“The lab’s this way,” he says, and turns to find that Trip and Lincoln have both disappeared. Well, hopefully they’ll have more sense than Phil and keep the others clear of the lab.

Their progress is slow, hampered by Fitz and Daisy’s refusal to let go of Simmons…and by May’s unsteadiness, but Phil’s pretending not to notice that. Offering her a hand is just as likely to end with him _losing_ it, and that’s not an experience he’s interested in repeating.

Point is, by the time they reach the lab, Zephyr One’s engines have settled into the steady hum that means they’re cruising. They’re a few hours from the Playground, by his count, and he’d really like to have this straightened out before they get there; he can’t justify letting Simmons roam the base unless he’s completely positive she’s her, but trying to prevent it without definitive proof that she’s _not_ is likely to end in mutiny.

Proof positive: even once they reach the lab, Daisy and Fitz stick close to her. They eschew stools of their own in favor of standing on either side of hers, hovering so near Phil wouldn’t be surprised if Simmons felt a bit claustrophobic.

If she is, though, she’s not showing any sign of it. “So—”

“What happened to you?” Fitz asks over her. “Did that Alveus bloke hurt you? We’ve looked for _years_ and this is—what?”

No mystery what distracted Fitz; Simmons has gone stark white.

“Jemma?” Daisy prompts.

The smile she gets in return is a long way from convincing. “Sorry, sorry. I’m fine. It’s just…”

She takes Fitz’s left hand gently in hers and pushes his sleeve up, studying his bare arm with an unnerving kind of focus.

“Uh—?”

“It’s not broken,” she says. “It—it healed.”

Given the day he’s had, Phil’s not embarrassed to admit it takes him a second to remember that Fitz broke that arm in the fall they thought killed her.

“Well, yeah…” Fitz looks from his arm to Simmons and back again. “I mean, it—it took a few months, but yeah. No permanent damage.”

He’s trying for a reassuring smile, but he’s obviously rattled by Simmons’ expression. Not that Phil can blame him; he’s getting a strong urge to wrap her in a blanket and make her some hot cocoa or something. She looks _shattered_.

“I’m sorry,” she says, oddly hoarse. Daisy inches a little closer to her. “I just…even with all the evidence he gave me, part of me still thought—or, or hoped, perhaps—that he was lying.”

“About what?” May asks. She’s in the process of tying a rag around her still-bleeding arm one-handed; a deadly look at Phil keeps him from trying to help, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still _want_ to.

Simmons hesitates, still staring at Fitz’s arm. “There was—when the pod fell, I got a bit banged up. Just some bruises and scrapes, nothing serious. A woman came and healed me. She just…touched me and all of my injuries disappeared.”

“Nice trick,” Fitz says. “I could’ve done with her help, too. Bloody cast got in the way of everything.”

“But that’s just it,” she says. Her tone is a weird mix of triumphant and tearful; it’s doing nothing for Phil’s urge to hug her. “She _could’ve_ helped you. It’s not enough proof, not really.”

“Proof of _what_?” Daisy demands. “Jemma, you’re not making any—”

“Alveus called her Inhuman,” Simmons interrupts, finally releasing Fitz’s arm in favor of gripping Daisy’s hand. “And he said _you_ were Inhuman, too. Could you—I just need to see your power. Please.”

It _sounds_ like an innocent enough request, but Phil’s suspicious despite himself. They still have no proof that this is really Simmons, and while no immediate possible harm of Daisy showing off her powers comes to mind, that doesn’t mean—

But he’s alone in his suspicion, obviously, because Daisy’s quaked a stack of manuals right off the counter before he even gets the chance to open his mouth.

Simmons sways in her seat.

“Jemma!”

“I’m fine,” she says, brushing off Fitz and Daisy’s steadying hands. “I’m—I was just—”

“Simmons,” May snaps. Simmons goes quiet. “What did he tell you?”

“Time travel.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “He said we’d travelled in time.”

Phil is vaguely aware that he’s gaping. He takes comfort in the knowledge he’s not the only one.

“It was only a week ago that Alveus pulled me out of that pod,” Simmons continues. “He said it was 2016 and I didn’t believe him—I didn’t _want_ to believe him—but your arm—and _your_ power—”

She stutters to a halt, takes a deep breath, and appears to compose herself.

“So. If it really has been two years, that’s why you couldn’t find me. It’s only in the last week I was anywhere to be found.”

To that…Phil has no idea what to say.


End file.
